


I'll Fight For You

by tilkingdomcome (AlexMeg)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Caring Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gen, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 05:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20829989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexMeg/pseuds/tilkingdomcome
Summary: ...But he found out just that when the king's fingers curled into a hard stone, his knuckles whitened from being clenched so tightly, fist raising beside his own head and pulling back. And before anyone's minds could catch up, the damage was already done. Because the next minute left Merlin lying curled up on the floor...





	I'll Fight For You

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for physical abuse

Silence filled between the walls of the prince's royal chambers, as it had been so ever since the moment Merlin entered the room in the morning. Other than a few orders here and there, Arthur remained strangely silent throughout the entire day. There were no witty remarks or retorts exchanged between them, nor any mocking insults were hurled at one another. Arthur didn't make even a single comment on Merlin's incompetence when he burst through the door this morning without even requesting for permission as well as arriving a good ten minutes late. And he did not say a simple word about his manservant's clumsiness. He wouldn't even roll his eyes at him or smirk in amusement when he saw him trip multiple times in only an hour. Merlin even tried to fall deliberately, right into his master.

And he didn't even call him an idiot for it.

No laughters or jokes were shared at the expense of each other's dignity. In fact, no laughters or jokes were shared at all. Merlin had tried to kid around with him in order to cheer him up but only received his depressing silence in response.

And frankly, he was getting quite worried about his friend. He was sad, the warlock could see that much. But what could it be that had him so upset? How long could it have been bothering him? He did seem fine yesterday though.

He searched through his memories, trying to recall if he saw anything happen or knew anything that could cause Arthur to react in such a way.

Only to come up empty.

It wasn't just him he was like this with. Where he would often make fun of Merlin during training sessions or just completely fool around with his knights, he mostly stayed quiet there as well. And as much as it pained him to admit, he actually missed Arthur's prattishness. Merlin didn't know what was wrong with his prince, and he hated it because not knowing why someone he cared about wasn't alright made him restless. He wanted to talk to him, to make him feel better about whatever it was that had him so aggrieved but if he knew Arthur, he would most likely shut down rather than spill his problems. It was times like these when he hated Uther for ingraining the misconception that sharing emotions are weak into his friend's mind.

Helplessness weighed heavily on him. He couldn't help Arthur if he didn't know what was wrong with him, and he knew that asking him would be absolutely pointless because he's not going to tell him anything, unless it was of his own accord.

Then he remembered Gaius, wanting to inform him about something, his desperate voice chasing him out the door while he babbled in response about how _I'm already so late_ and _you can tell me later_and _Arthur's gonna kill me_. Gods! He was in such a rush back then that the thought never even came to mind that it could be something extremely important. Now he's regretting not sacrificing a few precious moments to listen to his guardian's warning.

.

O*o*O

.

Night fell upon the beautiful city of Camelot, stars glowing marvellously on the dark sky. It was now dinner time for the royals in their chambers. But tonight, Uther called for his son's presence, and unable to refuse to the king, Arthur agreed to dine with him and Morgana.

Merlin would've thought it better if Uther decided to eat alone tonight, considering the way he was practically shaking with fury, his breaths roaring as his hands curled into a whitening fist on the table, his muscles tight and tensed as if ready to attack anyone who even _moved_ irritatingly. He figured it must have something to do with what Arthur's been distressed about all day. What it was, he'll probably never find out. But he had a vivid feeling that it was linked with it.

"Sire?" Morgana's soft voice filtered in his ears and he looked up to see her staring worriedly at her king.

"I'm alright," Uther replied automatically, even though he didn't look so.

Morgana looked unconvinced, no doubt, but she just nodded and said nothing.

After that, all voices were absent except for the light sounds of clinking spoons and the barely audible noises of chewing.

Then it was broken.

"You!" Uther's voice boomed out, and Merlin was startled out of his reverie, jumping slightly at the sudden voice as his eyes whipped up at the king. His eyes fell on the goblet being outstretched at him, motioning him to fill it up.

Merlin hesitated for a few long seconds, just standing there and staring at the king's vacant cup. He would be lying if he said that he wasn't apprehensive. Who in their right mind wouldn't be when he was like . . . that? So much anger burning in his dark eyes, immense bitterness twisting his cruel features.

And there he was just a few minutes ago, futilely hoping against hope that he wouldn't be forced to ever go anywhere near him.

But fate had always been merciless towards him.

Apparently he faltered for a bit too long because suddenly, the king was even more furious and impatient. "What the bloody hell are you standing there for!?" Uther bellowed irately at him.

Merlin flinched violently, his heart pounding anxiously as he met Uther's crude glare, while at the same time, catching Arthur's glance at him in his peripheral vision. He hastily rushed to the table, his grasp sweaty on the flagon's handle as he guided his trembling hands towards the king's goblet, the spout of the container hovering above it. He willed his appendages to quit shaking because they were causing him difficulties in aiming and his clammy palms were already bad enough, adding in the heavy weight of the full jug. He couldn't allow himself to let go of it though because that would, no doubt, infuriate Uther even more if possible. Something told him that the consequences of mistake would be exaggerated this time, and he always knew to trust his intuition.

But then . . .

He didn't know how it happened. Maybe it was the immense shaking as well as the massive weight of the flagon that somehow caused him to drop it, or maybe his sweaty hands made it slip off.

But the next thing he knew, he was watching the jug fall.

Going down and down and down.

Until it collided hard with the table top, emitting a loud _clang_ from the metallic material while, at the same time, a thud from the table. Water spilled all over while wetting the king's food along the way, stupefying everyone into astounded silence and stillness. No more clinking of spoons. No more noises of chewing.

Just . . . nothing.

Except that one sound.

And the water dripped from the edge of the table, splatting lazily onto the king's clothes.

.

.

Merlin's eyes were wide as he stared at the fallen jug in shock.

His shock quickly transformed into fear as his blue eyes drifted to the king, watching him stand up slowly - dangerously. His features contorted into an enraged snarl, his nostrils flaring and his eyes darkening even more with fury as he stared down his nose at the servant. Merlin thought he looked like a different man right now.

A man who was even more cruel and acrid, filled with a lot more hatred and bitterness than he was normally was. It terrified him to no end to see such a man as his king; someone who's capable of holding so much loathing in his heart.

In the corner of his eyes, he could see Arthur and Morgana stand up as well, slow and cautious.

"Father," Arthur said hesitantly, glancing almost frantically towards his servant, feeling a rush of protectiveness surge through his body when he saw the fear on his expression. His eyes were large, his throat bobbing shakily, his hands still trembling. He wouldn't blame him because the look on his father's eyes could've made _anyone_want to flee far, far away from Camelot. He was afraid as well, truth be told. But he wasn't exactly afraid for himself.

He was afraid for Merlin.

"You _filthy_ piece of scum," he snarled maliciously, his low voice vitriolic and seething.

The two other nobles currently occupying the room seemed appalled at the king's use of such language. Though Arthur was able to recover from it quick enough to attempt interrupting his father, to break him away from releasing his anger out on his poor manservant. "Father, calm down, please. I'm sure he did not mean to. It was simply an accident," Arthur reasoned, and if his voice was slightly desperate and pleading, nobody said a word.

But Uther either ignored him or didn't hear him, deafened by his rage. "You _worthless peasant_!" He yelled wrathfully, his tone rising with each word.

"I . . . I-I apologize sincerely, sire," Merlin stammered bashfully, his head bowed down, feeling his knees weakening. He was surprised that he could even form words at all, considering the consuming terror he was feeling that made his heart hammer violently against his sternum, his ears filled with his own wild heartbeats. It made his breaths emerge in heavy, rapid pants; made his stomach hurt and sickened with anxiety.

Uther was fuming by now. Apparently, Merlin didn't understand the full extent of his rage as he attempted to apologize to the king once more.

But he found out just that when the king's fingers curled into a hard stone, his knuckles whitened from being clenched so tightly, fist raising beside his own head and pulling back.

And before anyone's minds could catch up with his intentions, the damage was already done.

Because the next minute left Merlin lying curled up on the floor, his vision filling with the king's expensive leather boots. His prominent cheekbone throbbed mercilessly, an enormous, livid bruise supposedly forming there already. His head was spinning and the right side of it aching, his nose releasing driblets of ruby red blood. He probably must have slammed his nose into the ground. Probably landed on his wrist as well and twisted his ankle along the way, because they were hurting too.

His good hand shakily raised to his face, wincing sharply as the pain stung his cheek.

.

.

Arthur was stunned as he watched his manservant fall down to the floor from the impact of his father's hard, calloused fist.

Stunned wasn't even the right word, actually. Arthur was _horrified_. Because even though his father held the narrow-minded belief that the nobles had the authority to do as they wished to people who were of lower status than themselves, he never abused that so-called right.

And to see him do so had left him flabbergasted.

But that wasn't even the worst part.

No.

The worst part was that he hurt _Merlin_. That he abused that power on Merlin.

That he abused Merlin. _His_ Merlin.

And that, according to him, was just unacceptable.

Looking over to the young woman he considered his sister, he could see that she felt the same. Her glaring eyes were angry as she stared at him, her fists clenched at her sides.

Uther raised his leg, as if to kick the small, fetal form lying in front of him. But before he could so, his son's furious voice erupted in his ears.

"Get away from him!" Arthur snarled angrily, coming to stand between his father and the young boy as some kind of bodily protective shield.

"H-How dare you?" Uther growled, glaring at his son angrily.

Arthur didn't miss the slight stumble in his words. And realized, after critically scrutinizing his father with a closer look, that he was drunk.

The glassy eyes, the slight swaying of his feet, the inordinary behaviour. It made sense. His father would never get so ballistic about something as simple as this, not unless he was drunk and furious about something else. Those two never mixed well with him.

"You're drunk," Arthur vocalized, his tone still angry. Drunk or not, his father had still hit Merlin.

Hit _Merlin_. The thought just sounded so wrong, because how could _anyone_ with a heart have the stomach to hurt _Merlin_?

Sweet, loyal, innocent Merlin. His best friend. That same clumsy, brave idiot who had once walked into his life out of nowhere and changed his world forever. Changed his perception. Changed _him_. The only person who ever understood him and his problems and accepted his vulnerabilities and imperfections without even judging him once. Someone who saw him as a person, a human being. Saw him for _him_. Saw him as Arthur. Not _Prince_ Arthur, but just Arthur.

He was the obnoxious and irritating younger sibling he never had but always wanted as a child. His baby brother. His other half that made him whole. His reason to live, to breathe, to smile and laugh and just be _okay_. The cure to his loneliness. The only light that had managed to break through the darkness once surrounding his heart.

All his life, Arthur had felt as if there was something was missing. There was a kind of emptiness, plaguing one half of his heart, his soul. He thought it was his mother.

But even though he loved her very dearly and wished every day that she was alive; wished that he could _know_ her, _hold_ her; wished that he could just _be_ with her, that he could feel the precious love that only a mother could give.

It wasn't her.

It was Merlin.

It was always Merlin.

  


* * *

  


  


"I'll take him to his room," Morgana offered kindly, shooting a tight smile at her king.

"That would be appreciated, Morgana," Arthur replied, his voice still somber with anger, his trembling fists clenching inconspicuously at his sides as he dipped his head in acknowledgement and gratitude of her gesture.

Morgana gave one sympathetic glance at the curled up form on the cold marble ground, before taking the arm of her king and began leading him out of the royal dining room. Her usually gentle bright green eyes hardened in anger as soon as she turned away, her grip tightening on Uther's arms and causing her nails to dig crescent-shaped marks into his skin. Though he seemed too out of it to notice much.

She understood that the anniversary and reminder of that terribly fateful day and what he was going through wasn't very easy, which was why he was probably drinking in his chambers to ease the agony of losing his beloved wife and queen. But it wasn't fair for him to take out his vitriolic fury on other people, who definitely do not deserve his wrath, least of all a kind person such as Merlin.

Arthur watched their backs, waiting for them to leave. As soon as the duo vanished out of the room, he looked down at his manservant's slender folded frame.

And felt something heavy settle itself over his chest at the sight.

Merlin had a physique that made Arthur think of a defenseless, vulnerable little child. And the sweet, adorable innocence that he often possessed didn't help matters either (_the boy got sad when Arthur killed animals, for gods' sakes!_). Those were probably some of the things that roused that emotion of protectiveness in him for his servant amidst a battle with bandits and beasts. Contrary to what he claimed whenever he saw Merlin hiding behind a tree or on the ground in defense, Arthur actually much rather preferred that over the loyal and brave idiot charging into the fight himself like Arthur knew the stupid careless fool was capable of doing.

And to think of someone hurting him, someone who held the physical strength and muscles of years of training in his hands like his father did, made him afraid and angry.

Afraid that something like this has happened before, in a time and place he wasn't there and Merlin, being the too caring and big-hearted buffoon that he was, decided to keep it a secret and had never told him of it.

Afraid that it would happen again some day.

Angry at the thought of anyone even _daring_ to lay a hand on him. Of anyone even thinking about hurting Merlin.

He drew a few long, deep breaths to calm himself down, trapping the air into his lungs for some short seconds and then freeing them slowly, focusing on the sound of every inhale and exhale.

When he finally got ahold of his emotions and cooled down a bit, he slowly lowered down to his knees beside the young boy.

And with a surprising gentleness that he had no idea he could ever possess, especially after that fit of burning anger just seconds ago, he placed a hand on his small bicep, encircling his fingers around it. He leaned in and began speaking in one of his ridiculously large ears.

"Merlin... Merlin, can you hear me?"

For a moment, there was silence. And Arthur worried that the hit might have been worse than he thought.

But then, just as his prior anger and fear began to return, he heard a weak hum emanate from the younger boy, though barely audible, but still a response none the less. And Arthur released that breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Can you walk?" he asked softly.

After a few seconds of no movement or sound . . . Merlin began to sit up.

One palm flat on the ground, while the other hand remained cradled against his chest, he began to heave himself up.

But one skinny arm was not enough to support his weight as he fell down on his elbow, knocking the bone painfully and he bit his lip hard to stop the whimper almost tearing out of his throat.

He swore he could almost _feel_ Arthur rolling his eyes behind him (_or maybe it was just his magical sixth sense_).

He yelped in surprise when he felt hands under his arms, pulling him up to help him to his feet. But he didn't fight against it or protest in pig-headedness and indignance at the gesture, having seen it used mainly on children, instead complying and allowing the prince to tug him into a standing position. Perhaps he had been too exhausted, or too humiliated to do anything, or he had simply been grateful for the aid, but he didn't struggle in the least.

But when he began to put weight on his left feet just as he was rising up, he gasped loudly at the sudden and sharp pain shooting across the sprained ankle, his features twisting in hurt as he nearly lost his balance from his forgotten injury if it weren't for the quick, instinctual and supportive hand grabbing his small bicep to hold him up, which was then followed by the arm grasping his lithe waist.

A small blush began to creep up and heat his cheeks at the mishap, and his head remained downcast in embarrassment and weariness, not being able to find it within himself to raise it up. So he instead tried to focus his attention on moving his foot and on getting one step ahead of another.

As they walked, Merlin knew somewhere in his mind that he was being unbearably slow due to his wound. But even then, he did _not_ expect himself to be suddenly lifted into the air, warmth of arms wrapping beneath his knees and his back, by the impatient and prattish prince.

Still, he never fought.

**O*o*O*o*O**

"Gaius!"

Arthur called out as he cautiously pushed against the door with his shoulder.

Not hearing a response, he sighed in disappointment, entering inside as he closed the door with his boot.

He slowly moved towards the patient bed, and gladly, relieved himself of the burden in his arms as he placed the young servant down in a sitting position. Though Merlin was as light as paper to him compared to the physical strength he had gained from years of practice, the weight did begin to take its toll on you when you were extremely exhausted.

Arthur sat down on the chair a few feet away, waiting for the physician to return.

A few long minutes of waiting elapsed, his feet tapping and knee bouncing impatiently (_where in the bloody hell is Gaius?_), when he heard the quiet voice of Merlin speak,

"I could take care of it myself... if you could just bring me the supplies..."

Arthur went discomfittingly static for a few seconds at the small voice suddenly invading the silence. But then he released a light breath and nodded slightly, and then asked, "what do you need?"

Merlin listed down the few things he needed for his wounds. Just some painkiller draught that held a repulsive shade of green colour, along with some ointment that was of an almost grayish colour, and some bandages.

Arthur did what was asked of him by Merlin, which was quite a feat, Merlin thought, as he was the prince and he thought princes didn't do things for their servants.

Sifting through the shelves the servant had pointed at, Arthur looked for the items on his mental list. Liquids of all colours in glass bottles and jars filled the space, labels stuck to them.

When he finally found all the supplies, he immediately strode back towards the injured boy, handing him everything carefully so as to not drop them.

Arthur returned to his side on the chair and sat quietly, watching as Merlin silently began to tend to his ankle first, applying the ointment on the swollen spot. It was a bit disconcerting to see him so mute, so hunched over when he had grown so accustomed to his usual and completely opposite nature. He was so irritably talkative most of the time, constantly chatting and running his mouth nonstop. And now, to see him so quiet...

Not to mention his insolence, his overconfidence and cheekiness. Merlin sure was different, as not many have had the courage, which even included his bravest knights, to stand up to him, nor did they ever have such an effect on him.

And the thing was, Arthur liked it. Enjoyed the idiot's company and the quick, sharp retorts to his insults. He looked forward to the verbal battle of mocking words between them, their bickers and banters.

The silence and the lack of distraction allowed his thoughts to wander towards the events that occurred only just a while ago.

Arthur felt partially response for what had happened to Merlin. Perhaps if he had somehow managed to stop his father before he raised his hand on Merlin, if he had successfully pulled his father's misdirected rage and attention away from poor, undeserving Merlin on time and somehow prevented all of this. If only he had done _something_ instead of just standing there, watching and silently hoping that the situation doesn't worsen any more and things don't go too far, hoping that his father just yelled out his anger and then ended it right there.

But that's the thing . . . he did _nothing_. He let it all happen, even when it was happening _right in front of his very own eyes_.

And it's not like Arthur hadn't _known_ what it all could turn into. He had seen it before, how, every single year on this particular day, his father would let out all his corrosive anger on just about every servant he came across. He became a different man on this day. He became more cruel, harsh, acrid, full of hatred and rage that filled up his very being, and it was so strong that...

That sometimes, not even Arthur, his own _son_, was saved from it.

It's why all the servants who weren't new here scurried away, _fled_ at his very sight because they _knew_.

Forget breaking his father away from releasing his violent fury on his manservant. He shouldn't have even _brought_ Merlin with him there. Should've told him to stay back. He should've _known_ that this would happen.

But he didn't. Why? Because he forgot. Because he didn't think as he was too lost in his dark, melancholy, all-consuming thoughts, his painfully crushing grief and demeaning self-pity of how it was _his_ birth, his very _existence_ that stole his mother's life away from her. Every heart beat, every breath that he took, it could have been hers if he hadn't been born. It _should_ have been hers. How it was _he_ killed her. How it was his fault that his father would become such a coarse, merciless man on every anniversary of her death, lashing out at anyone who dared to come in his path.

He was snapped out of his depressing, ruthful, guilt-ridden mind by a low, frustrated noise. And he lifted his previously distant gaze up from the space he was staring at, changing into a slightly alarmed one as his pupils landed on the source.

To find his idiotic manservant struggling to wrap the dressing around his salve-smeared ankle one-handed, his face pinched in concentration.

And Merlin was too engrossed in his frustration and work to notice the exasperated, but slightly fond, roll of Arthur's blue eyes as he stood up from the chair he was reclining on, a hint of hesitation in the way his movements stuttered a time or two. Though the mishap was instantly veiled by the determined straightening of his shoulders and back as he slowly walked towards him. Merlin was only informed of his nearby presence when his expensive leather boots suddenly came into his line of his vision below him, which was then followed by his blonde head just a second later as Arthur knelt before him, his glinting hair a magnificent golden shade in the dim candle lights that rivalled the warm rays of the sunset.

And with a delicacy that was nothing like Arthur, he slowly began to wrap up the boy's ankle with the gauze, his eyes fixed on his carefully working hands.

Silence fell over them, apart from subtle rustle-like sounds from the layered bandages brushing against each other. None of them were willing to break it, both content to just let it be and not say a word about everything that had happened, even with how tense and awkward it was. Not even a light, mocking remark came about Arthur's uncharacteristic generosity and help, though Merlin was a bit astonished, but still, he appreciated it nonetheless.

But even as Arthur wanted to keep this quiet, to not say anything about it and let it stay like this until tomorrow morning, when, hopefully, everything will fall back into order and Merlin would be back to his cheerful, clumsy, whiny self and they'd be arguing and bantering about anything and everything again. He felt the need to explain, to somehow try and make Merlin understand the reason behind his father's actions, even though he was still quite angry at the man himself. And also, to reassure the boy that it wasn't his fault in case he felt that way, even if a little bit. That the reason of his father's anger was something else entirely, and he did nothing to deserve or provoke it.

So that's what he did.

* * *

  


"Today's the day when my mother died," he began quietly, his heart pounding in his throat. He immediately sensed Merlin's gaze on him, listening with all his unwavering and undivided attention.

Because he always listened to him, no matter what... though his commands and orders were another matter entirely.

"Every year on this day, ever since her loss... this is what became of him," he continued softly. "He'd be irritable throughout the whole day, snapping at everyone and anyone he could. Mostly the servants though. It's why they'd be keeping one eye to their surroundings, making sure to get out of his sight before he laid his own on them when he enters. Or to get out of his way whenever he passes through, or else they'd be in for nothing good...

And who could blame them? If he's too furious, he just might send them off for a few floggings. I try to stop those as much as I could, but even I could only do so much. He's a stubborn man, you know? Once he sets his mind to something, he will never back away from it... no matter how wrong. It's why they make sure to stay away, because they _know_that once they get into trouble with him, there's no hope of getting out of it.

After all, how can they even expect to when, sometimes, he wouldn't even spare his own son from his rage?"

"Wait... did... did he ever hit you?" Merlin inquired suddenly at that, back straightening and muscles tensing subconsciously, one eyebrow pulled down while the other raised in question and curiosity.

"That's not the point," Arthur answered dismissively, and Merlin had probably gotten his answer because he looked horrified and disgusted, but he ignored it and then went on once again, "he's just grievous, sorrowful. But he _is_ known to convert those kinds of emotions into fury and hate... it's just much easier that way, I guess. Far easier to show.

He'd be drinking away his sorrows in his chambers from the evening until nightfall, missing dinner. He had never really invited me and Morgana for dinner before on this day. He'd just pass out in his rooms. I don't know why he did that, probably just an excuse, looking for someone else to take out his emotions on..." Arthur trailed off at that, his nostrils flared and his lower lip jutting out slightly and his chin crinkling like it did whenever he was upset and angry, and his contrite voice became quiet with guilt, "I guess that someone turned out to be you...

And I'm... I'm really sorry for that, Merlin."

And Merlin was shocked into silence at the apology. Arthur never said the word 'sorry', even when he was supposed to, he didn't. It was always sarcastic, never a genuine and sincere one that, he won't deny, he had often yearned to hear from him, for every instance he didn't believe him, for all the times he had treated him so harshly, made him feel like he was nothing but an idiotic servant to him whom he barely cared about. But now that he did, despite that it was for nothing of his own doing...

Merlin had no idea what to say, or how to react. He was speechless. Stupefied and uncertain of what to say.

When he finally found his voice, his tone and his eyes softening and filling with fondness for the prince, he replied lowly, his voice and slight smile affectionate with brotherly love, "It... it's not your fault."

"But it is, in a way. I... I should have protected you. I should have kept you safe and... I should have looked out for you. I should have stopped - "

"Wait a minute..." Merlin cut into his rambling, shaking his head as his eyebrows furrowed. "What are you on about, Arthur? It's not your responsibility to do any of that. And besides, your job is to protect your _people_, not your servant."

"I... I just... I don't know!" Arthur exclaimed, his tone exasperated and frustrated. "I just thought that... that I'm... " _The older brother here_, though he thankfully managed to hold that back. "I'm the prince here and if I can't protect my own servant, how can I ever even _hope_ to protect an entire nation?"

"That's just ridiculous, Arthur! You know you've always done a great job in protecting your people! It's why they trust you so much! It's why they look over to _you_ for safety and protection, not Uther, not your knights, but _you_, you stupid dollophead!" Merlin bellowed, his voice passionate and loud and clear despite the exhaustion seeping into his very bones.

For a moment, Arthur's fingers stilled as he stared up at him in wonder, his gaze awed and bewildered and puzzled as his eyebrows furrowed. He shook his head slightly in amazement because . . . because how can _this_ boy, this stupid, clumsy, foolish boy who could barely stand on his own two feet for two whole minutes, be able to say such things . . . things that seemed so . . . so bloody wise and sincere?

The trust and faith that no doubt came all the way from within his hopeful, innocent and huge heart and shone into those blue eyes and those strong words and that confident voice made Arthur's heart swell with warmth and fondness for the young boy, whom he had only known for two years and had already considered him the truest friend he ever had, though he would never admit to that fact aloud.

"Wonders never cease, Merlin," he said softly, a slight and awed smile playing on his lips.

.

.

.

"How... how did she..." Merlin ran off, unsure how to ask. The tone of his voice was gentle and hesitant, and a bit sad for the prince who lost his mother before ever getting a chance to even _see_her with his own eyes. He himself had lost his own father, and it hurt like hell to know that he had never got to see him, or talk to him, or touch him. To not even know what he _looked_ like. To not know him as a person.

To not even know whether he was dead or alive.

Arthur's hands froze, unmoving, and Merlin knew in that moment that he didn't really have to finish his question, because he already understood what he meant.

"I'm sorry... I... I really shouldn't have... I just..." he trailed off again, suddenly feeling ashamed for causing such reaction in him. He just wanted to know as nobody ever really told him, not even Gaius. It just never came up, and he knew nobody else would like to talk about that awful, horrific time of The Great Purge.

"She died giving birth to me."

Merlin could hear all the emotions in those six words, in that quiet, sad tone. Could hear everything Arthur felt about the matter. He could hear the guilt and the remorse, the sorrow and the grief, the anguish and the heartache, the loss and the longing. The desire to get to know her, to feel her motherly love and touch, to have her right by him, alive and okay. It hurt Merlin's heart, felt as if sorrow and empathy's hands just reached through his sternum and clenched its crude fingers around it painfully.

"Your wrist," Arthur ordered, unknowingly interrupting his servant's thoughts. He stared at the brutally swollen and grotesquely bent wrist cradled closely to the boy's thin chest, and felt another flash of hot anger directed at his father flare up within him at the sight of the vicious wound, but he immediately pushed it down.

He looked up to descry the boy's slightly horrified eyes, blue and large with childlike fear at the agony that was to come. He had probably never gone through this before, so therefore, he wasn't used to it in the slightest. Arthur felt a pang of pity for him, knowing the first time always felt the worst when it came to these kinds of things. Though he himself wished he didn't have to, but he knew it was vital and necessary.

"I'm going to have to set it straight, Merlin," Arthur said lightly, his voice genuinely regretful.

"B-but... but... you're not a physician! What if you make it worse?!" Merlin spluttered apprehensively, his voice shaking slightly, and Arthur couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him. He knew Merlin was just trying to prolong the time before he'd have to feel the extreme pain of having the dislocated wrist settled back.

"No, I'm not. But I've had my fair share of experiences with it, Merlin. I learned from when I was sometimes forced to do this in case of any emergencies during patrols, often when we got into a battle with bandits while the search and one of us got hurt, and there wasn't anyone else there who could help."

Merlin swallowed shakily and closed his eyes, and after a few minutes of self-reassuring and comforting, he open them again and breathed out a defeated sigh. He then schooled his features into a determined one, his lips pursed tightly as he slowly led his dislocated hand towards the prince's waiting hand, trying to be as careful as possible, but he still emitted a light hiss of pain from the inevitable jostling movement.

He squeezed his eyes shut again in preparation of the incoming pain that was doubtlessly coming, and he could feel his magic flow through his veins along with the cold fear, instinctively trying to protect him from whatever threat was enthralling him in its apprehension. But he restrained it, pushed it down.

The complete silence and stillness was filled with guilt and remorse, Arthur's calloused hand readied to snap the bone back into place as it cradled the boy's small and bent wrist.

Merlin sucked in a deep, shaky breath and released it slowly, which was heard all the more clearly and loudly in the silent room, and then he said firmly, "just do it. Get it over with."

A few seconds of reluctance after, there was a snap, and a short scream, followed by gasps of pain torn out forcefully, and a few smalls sob that were barely audible, but there.

And soft whispers of constant reassurances and comfort (_It's alright, Merlin. It's over now_).

.

.

.

The cool ointment applied to his wrist felt a bit nice, which he took as a reward after the horrible pain of setting his bone back to it's original position. Now, Arthur was wrapping the bandages over it. Though the bandages on his ankle were done a bit clumsily, but it'll still do.

It was a few minutes after that disaster that Merlin suddenly remembered their previous conversation. The new information about his prince left him a bit baffled and incredulous. Because here he was, assuming that he knew quite enough about Arthur, but apparently, he was wrong. It left him a bit doubtful of his cognizance about the future king of Camelot that he was to help him become, his destiny that he was supposed to protect from all danger, his master that he was supposed to serve.

His best friend that he was supposed to_ know_.

He knew he was being a bit hypocritical when he felt the slight bit of frustration at that, as he had his own fair share of secrets and hidden aspects about him, but still.

Perhaps there were still a few things he didn't know about Arthur, which did leave him with a slightly nagging and burning sense of curiosity (_his mother did always tell him he was a bit nosy_). What else could he not know about his friend?

But even then, he had observed and learned and realized and discovered a lot about his master in the past two years, piece by piece. Every sign, every look in his eyes, every tone of his voice. And he knew Arthur well enough to read his expressions perfectly; knew him well enough to ferret out every one of his desperately veiled emotion and carefully hidden thought with only one, mere look at his deep blue eyes and his handsome face. Root out every feeling from his firm, confident voice and every little gesture and movement of his body.

He knew he'd grit his teeth and clench his fists and his nostrils would flare and his eyes and face and burn red and his lips would curl inwards when he's angry. He'd growl a lot and roll his eyes and throw things when he's irritable and cranky. His voice and eyes would grow soft and light and he'd smile a bit when he was fond and affectionate. He'd swallow a lot and he'd look away and take deep breaths and his nose would twitch and lower lip would jut out, causing his chin to crinke when he knew he was about to cry. He'd stare at the ground, his hands clasped in front of him and his elbows on his thighs, or he'd gaze out of the window, his arms crossed when he's worried and tense. He'd pace a lot, back and forth, one arm folded and the other's hand resting on his chin when he was anxious and thinking or bounce his knees and tap his feet when he's impatient, never able to sit still. His blue eyes would twinkle and his laugh would be deep and loud from the belly and he'd smile and grin more than he usually did when he's happy. The muscles of his cheek would twitch and he'd struggle to keep his lips stretched into a smile because it would keep slipping off every few seconds whenever he had to fake one while talking to a noble he disliked. He always knew when he was merely being sarcastic or just pretending, or genuine and sincere. Knew when he was sad or jovial, or when he was doubtful of his decisions or himself, or when he was scared but trying to hide it.

And he knew when Arthur blamed himself for whatever went wrong in his life.

He watched Arthur's rough hands bind the gauze around his wrist for a short while, the motions almost mesmerizing.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," Merlin then said softly, the volume of his voice just slightly above a whisper. He felt a dull ache settle itself stubbornly over his chest, weighing down heavily on his tightening heart in empathy and sorrow for his friend.

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, as if that conversation about his mother never happened before, as if he completely was certain that Merlin never detected any of those intense, hurtful emotions in his voice as he said those six words. He didn't even glance up from what he was doing this time, not even stilling a muscle in his body.

"I... I know you think that it was your fault... what happened to your mother, I mean. And - "

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed heavily in false indifference, but Merlin saw the slight twitch in his features. "Look, it happened years ago, alright? I barely even knew her, and it doesn't hurt as much as you think it does. Therefore, I'm absolutely fine. So can we please end this conversation now?"

And Merlin felt anger and frustration bubble up within him, slowly building and beginning to heat up like lava. He knew the stoic nonchalance was all a mere pretend, a mask, a lie. Dear gods, why can't the clotpole just tell him how he felt for once? "No, Arthur. You're _not_ fine, and I _know_ you're not telling the truth," he bit out.

"Oh, and just how would you know that?" Arthur asked as he stopped wrapping the bandage, looking up at him as his eyes hardened and narrowed at him, his gaze and the tone of his voice almost challenging.

Merlin felt his hands curl and tighten into a fist, even as doing so sent jolts of pain up his right arm due to his hurt wrist. But the adrenaline and fury and frustration running through him was far more powerful, so he barely paid much heed to it.

"Merlin..." Arthur's voice suddenly changed as he saw Merlin's wounded hand clenching, sounding almost worried. "Merlin, I..."

"Damn it, you prat!" he screamed as the bubbling lava-hot anger in his chest suddenly erupted like a volcano, his voice rising decibels. "It's because I _know_ you, I'm your friend, you stupid dollophead! I've been there with you almost _every_ minute of your life ever since I became your servant!"

"Okay, Merlin... just... just calm down, alright?" Arthur soothed softly, a hint of plea in his tone and in the way his hand laid upon the boy's damaged one, almost frantically. "Just... don't hurt yourself..."

"Why can't you just talk to me, Arthur?" he said, his voice changing soft and pleading.

Arthur chalked the furious outburst down into moodiness from the exhaustion and let it go (_he just hoped Merlin would do the same_). Merlin _did_look a bit fatigued, with the slight tinge of shadows colouring underneath his eyes that stood out from the pallor of his skin. "Alright, I will..." he reassured softly, biting his lip as he tried to slowly pry the tightened fist open.

It seemed that the adrenaline was beginning to wear off as the pain of his own abuse finally caught up to the idiot, his face twisting in hurt as he grasped his arm with his good hand. "Ow..."

Arthur just rolled his eyes, and then continued dressing the wound as carefully as he could with the now ruined gauze.

.

.

.

By the time Arthur was finished, Merlin was already nodding off into sleep due to exhaustion and painkiller potion effects, eyes drooping low and his body slumped and arms limp. But then suddenly jerking awake every once in a while as his eyes snapped open and he straightened his back. Arthur thought he looked like a sleepy toddler, trying not to fall into the traps of slumber during dinner.

It was — and dare he even bloody _think_ these girly thoughts — slightly adorable. Looking confused for a few seconds whenever he awoke, but then recognition would dawn and he'd sit there, eyes pulled wide open to avoid sleeping.

He rolled his eyes slightly, the small uplift of the corners of his mouth fond and affectionate. And then he stood up on his feet, his knees cramping as he did so for remaining in the same position for too long.

"Alright, come on," Arthur murmured as he took his chin and raised it up from the uncomfortable angle it was, causing the boy's head to fall on his shirt as his features twisted subtly in pain, but he didn't open his eyes. Arthur sighed heavily, wondering what it could possibly be that had him so exhausted. What was so hard about polishing armors and washing floors? He rolled his eyes again at the thought, and then wriggled an arm under his knees and grasped his narrow shoulders with the other, Merlin's head still buried into the prince's chest. Arthur slowly lifted his slightly shaking arms, muscles tired from all the bandaging work, and picked up the sleeping boy along the way.

.

.

.

He plopped down, his knees weakening with exhaustion on top of the weight in his weary arms, on the small, hard bed, and he grimaced at the slight pain shooting up his ankle. Bloody gods, how does Merlin sleep on this uncomfortable rock?

The boy's head remained laid against his shoulders, his smaller hands clutched into his tunic. He closed his eyes and took a while to just breathe and rest, wishing badly that he could get to his own bed soon (_he could almost feel himself stretching out on the soft mattress, under the warm covers. The complete opposite of Merlin's bed_) and forget everything; today's events, his father's rage, his mother's tragic death because of him and the burden of that guilt and shame and sorrow and anguish and self-hatred pressing heavily, almost painfully, on his heart and shoulders.

"Wasn' yo'r faul, Arth...Arthu'.."

Arthur's heart jumped slightly with surprise at the small, slurring croak from below. And he looked down to find Merlin shifting his head slightly, eyes still closed but his mouth still mumbling.

"Sh' l'ved 'ou... wouldn'... wouldn' hav' wan'ed y'u t'bl'me yo'rse'f..." he went on murmuring softly, voice weak and slurry and drowsy, but the words honest and genuine and strong.

"How would you know that?" Arthur couldn't help but ask, soft and hopeless and desperate for reassurance and comfort. He didn't know what she thought of him if she's watching him right now. What if she hated him? What if she blamed him for her death like he did and wished him to be in her place instead?

A short pause, then some gentle rustling as Merlin sat up facing him, head lolling slightly on his neck, eyes still half-closed, but somehow still managing a weak glare at him.

But then his face softened, and he lazily flapped a hand on top of Arthur's, and smiled. "'Cause I kno'... kno' wha' sss'like... t'...t' live wi'h a moth'r."

Arthur felt a slight sense of envy burn in him at that, wishing he could know the experience too. But still, the truth of the statement cannot be denied.

"An' I kno' yo'r moth'r l'ves you ... will alw'ys lo'es 'ou n'... n'matt'r wha'..." he slurred, then paused again as he began to topple forward, as if he couldn't hold his body up. And he grasped Arthur's shoulders to keep himself upright.

He breathed softly, and raised his head, staring deeply through his dazed eyes and straight into Arthur's, almost as if into the prince's very soul.

"An' I kno' tha'... tha' giv-givin' bir'h t'you an' ssseeing 'ou, was the bes' mo...mo...momen' f'her li'e."

The low mumbles of his slurred, croaky voice did not dull the powerful, passionate sincerity in his erythraen, bruised and weary eyes. Sincerity so strong that Arthur began to, somewhat, believe his words, even if just a little bit.

Maybe it was because that's just what he _wanted_to believe, or maybe it was because he truly _did_begin to understand after the wise idiot's words.

He didn't exactly know why... but he did.

It was then Merlin probably decided to give up on staying awake any longer, and let his arms fall to his sides and his light body forward and into Arthur's, his nose crushed against the prince's shoulder as he snored softly into the fabric of his shirt.

And the only thing Arthur could do was smile.

Merlin was the clumsiest, most foolish, insolent and self-sacrificing idiot he'll ever have the misfortune to know and meet, but he was a friend. A true friend. Kind and loyal and caring and the best friend and little brother he never had.

One corner of his lips turned up into an airy, fond smirk as he gave a small, affectionate rub to the back of his head, the arm around his waist tightening briefly. He'd be lying if he said he didn't love this idiot, though he'd never admit to that out loud.

The hand on his head then moved to his jacket, carefully tugging it off his shoulders and back, and then flinging it into the already existent mess on the floor, to which he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. And then gently, he placed the lanky form down, then reached for the thin, ragged blanket at the end of his feet and pulled it over to his neck. He leaned over him, smiling as he ruffled his hair.

He slowly pried off the fingers twisted into his shirt and laid it over his stomach, trying to settle him into a comfortable position, or as comfortable as it can be in this bed made of bloody stone.

Then stepped away and onto his feet, one knee no longer pressed into the thick mattress of the bed, he turned away and quietly left the room with a heart much more lighter and free, something that happened for the very first time on this day.

Maybe as long as he had that idiot by his side...

He closed the door behind him.

_I'll be okay._


End file.
